Filling the Void - Part 1

The sun is just starting its push, but grey clouds hold it at bay. It fits the scene, though. I’m starting the day in my usual way, seated at my desk and checking that all is in its place. Penny’s awake. She’s working with her usual stealth in the kitchen, but the house is steeped in silence. I feel her conscious presence in the center of my chest, a dull familiar ache. The day has barely begun and I already feel it pressing in. With steepled fingers resting on my lips, I attempt my morning breathing exercises—deep inhale…hold…slow release.

The kitchen is awash in sterile, artificial light. The table is set with its usual precision, the steam rising from my breakfast of coffee and toast, perfectly timed. I sit and am greeted with her usual ‘Morning, Sunshine’ and a kiss on the forehead. Her lips feel cool and I try to hide the reflex to recoil. “Happy birthday,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

● ● ●

Penny is a fine wife and I love her, but her lips this morning…they hold too many truths. And there’s that ever present ache. It’s been building for weeks and now sits behind my sternum like something that needs a shape.

‘I’m going to morning Mass, I think.’

Her downcast eyes flick up to meet mine.

‘Everything okay?’

What does that even mean anymore?

‘Of course. Just need some quiet.’

The world fades a bit when I’m there. There’s order… routine…rest from the unexpected, and that is what I need right now.

Pecks on the cheek are exchanged, tie is straightened, and I step out into the grey unknown.

The usual route to church is a straight shot through what could be a painting of the typical small town center: a café, a family owned bakery, a few restaurants, clean alleys set for outdoor dining.

Despite the dreary morning sky, it’s already humming with life—sounds and smells that feel set to a level just past comfortable background noise.

The scrape of the baker’s broom as she sweeps the front steps, the clanking of spoons on ceramic cups of a young couple sharing flirty glances over coffee and sweet treats before work, a lingering touch when she passes him the pastry, the light musk of perfume as I walk past a shapely woman checking her hair in the window of a parked car—a brief flash of cleavage as she leans forward—all amplifying the pressure, reminders of the emptiness.

● ● ●

The heavy, wooden door closes behind me with a satisfying thud that mutes the droning behind it. The cool air is a soothing relief from the humid mix from my walk, the friction of rough fabric on skin fading.

The sanctuary is filled with the scents of wax, incense, and old stone, but devoid of anything warm and alive aside from my own heartbeat. The brief image of the woman’s cleavage lingers in the back corners of my mind, but I brush it aside in this sacred space.

I kneel in the usual pew, second row by the side door. Fingers resting in their groove just below my nose like worn puzzle pieces that have been joined countless times.

Our Father.

Hail Mary.

The Apostles’ Creed

And then, my petitions:

What is this constant ache?

Why do I feel this void?

What belongs in this emptiness?

The silence that would calm, be a healing balm, feels suddenly hot—like an angry, festering wound as I slip deeper into prayer.

But abruptly I’m pulled free by what sounds like a clap of thunder followed by the warmth of light on my face. The moment feels almost…divine.

My eyes dart to its source. The side door hangs open, the sky has cleared and the silhouette of what stands at the threshold pulls a gasp from me. The deep thud of the closing door drowns the light, bringing her into focus.

Her skin is pale, but still holds a natural color, especially in her cheeks. Those heavy-lidded, dark eyes that she has the audacity to line black could tempt a saint into iniquity. Full lips painted redder than sin. Long black hair tumbles past her shoulders.

But then my focus pulls out and I take in all of her at once. She’s young, maybe twenty years younger than me, wearing a thin black dress that does nothing to hide her pronounced, dramatic curves. It has a form-fitting, modest cut that is unmistakably European in the way it follows her every movement without apology. She’s not performing; the style simply belongs to her the way an accent belongs to a voice.

She genuflects and everything tightens, stretches in a way that accentuates every inch of her. She takes the pew directly in front of me by the door and falls to her knees.

My vision tunnels and I see only her.

● ● ●

The altar bell rings and I stand. By the sound of creaking pews behind me, others have joined us, but I don’t… I can’t tear my eyes from her. Her hands skim over the curve of her backside to straighten her dress, pressing lightly into her flesh. Watching her fingers ever so slightly sink in has me imagining what it would be like to touch her. I clasp my hands in front of me to hide what her seemingly innocent act is doing to me.

Pleasures of the flesh…

I tuck my lips between my teeth, wetting them with my tongue. It oddly feels more like a defense mechanism than anything sexual.

She adjusts her neckline in some sort of attempt at modesty and her breasts rise and fall back into place… I think about how their warm weight would feel in my hands…

‘If your eye causes you to sin…

about sliding one free…

pluck it out and throw it away…

swirling my tongue around the nipple as it hardens…

as it is better to lose one part of your body…

suck it between my teeth, bite down just enough to make her squeal.

than for your whole body to be thrown into Hell.’

The line for Holy Communion starts to form; I am right behind her. We move forward one step at a time, every one a sin. Her… her ass sways as we grow closer to the Word made flesh; the bulge in my trousers has grown uncomfortable and obvious. My transgressions slowly drip and darken the fabric.

She’s next.

My hands are still tightly clasped in front of me, hiding my shame. I fear even this will cause me to climax, to profane the holiest of Sacraments.

She falls to her knees before the priest, tongue out to receive the blessed Sacrament.

My head spins and everything goes black.

In my mind’s eye she kneels before me, tongue protruding, her spit dripping from the tip. Her hands kneading her breasts, so needy, her eyes begging me to fill her mouth.

I panic.

‘Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof…’

I bow my head to receive a blessing; I am not worthy to receive Him.

I pass her on my way back to my pew, her eyes closed in fervent prayer, her chest heaving with each breath.

I clumsily kneel and bury my face in my hands, my…my cock throbbing for release.

‘Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.’

The thud of the door pulls me free of my agony.

I look up and she’s gone.

● ● ●

The walk home is a brutal assault.

The shielding clouds are gone, leaving the sun to pummel me.

A new set of faces, eyes all fixed on me, their judgmental glares burn my skin.

The door slams against the wall as I frantically enter.

All is quiet, but I lock and latch the door anyway.

I take the stairs two at a time, shut and lock my office door, and collapse into the desk chair.

The walk has done nothing to remedy the pulsing between my legs.

I grab my prayer book and open to the prayer of Saint Michael the Archangel. My heart is pounding, in perfect sync with my cock.

I make it through the first line before casting it aside in a fit of frustration and lust.

One intrusive thought keeps breaking through.

Her… kneeling before me… tongue out.

Every breath burns as the thought continues to unfold.

She tears her breasts free, eyes blown wide, spit dripping onto her exposed chest.

‘Feed me!’

She pulls the hem of her dress up, dragging her nails over her thighs.

‘Or is this what you want?’

My eyes snap down to see her exposed heat, coarse black hair soaked.

What little resolve I have left crumbles.

Before I realize what is happening, my cock is in my hands, my head hanging back, eyes screwed shut.

My grip tightens.

I desperately stroke faster as if I could strangle the sin from my body, punish myself for these lustful thoughts.

When I break, it is an obscene eruption, covering me in my own filth and failure.

I struggle to hold back the humiliation of adding tears to my shame.

But a new shame appears… like a prayer answered too late.

The emptiness is gone, but what has filled it simultaneously disgusts me and fills me with an aching need.

I have to see her again.

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